


The World, She Said

by LazyWriterGirl



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Gods/Demigods/Mortals AU, Multi, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-11-13 12:24:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11185065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyWriterGirl/pseuds/LazyWriterGirl
Summary: The world is ruled by the gods and guarded by their chosen champions, and the mortals below pay homage to the mighty beings above them. Relations between gods and mortals are brief, relations between demigods and mortals unheard of. That is the way it was meant to be, the way that it has always been. Such is the way of the world.But what happens when a demigod defies the will of the gods above in pursuit of love with a mortal?What happens when a mortal throws away the certainty of a stable marriage for a chance at something more?





	1. The Beginning of the World

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Fire Emblem Awakening, nor any of the characters associated with it; and no profit is made through this work. All errors both linguistic and otherwise are mine.

Every young child on the continent had been taught the story of the gods, and could repeat it almost to perfection before they reached a decade of age.

 

 

 

 

 

Grima and Naga, two halves of the same whole, created the world from a single speck of dust. Why they had done so mattered little to anyone, but that was the truth and it was not to be questioned. There was so much more of importance to discuss, and no intelligent child would think to ask something so foolish lest they be punished for interrupting the speaker.

 

Grima and Naga created the world, and that was the most important thing to remember about the beginning of time.

 

When the speck had grown to an acceptable size, the two of them wandered their new domain together, poised to make changes to the world as they saw fit. Though they did not often see eye to eye, theirs proved a harmonious partnership. When Grima turned his eyes upon the flattened earth and willed it to grow, forming mountains, Naga traced paths around his work with flowing springs and intricate forestry, creating a balance of both the majesty and natural beauty of their shared efforts. When Grima made new mountains that spilled fire forth upon the land, Naga took care to bless the ashes which remained and the soil that lingered beneath, to show that fertile growth could come of what had seemed before to be only destruction. When Naga’s gaze turned to the heavens and set the world awash in glorious light, Grima ensured that the darkness would fall to give the world its rest. When morning came again and Naha created the sun, Grima gave the inky black sky of night the stars and a glorious moon, to keep with Naga’s ideals of beauty.

 

And so the years came to pass, and centuries fell at their feet with the ease of mere seconds.

 

As the earth grew towards its thousandth year, the two creators of the world grew lonely in their wanderings. They discussed the matter with each other, agreeing that they two were not to breed together. Though their powers ran in similar veins, their bloodlines had always worked, not in opposition, but in balance. To combine their two essences would be dangerous, and they decided that, even though they were lonely without the presence of other gods, they were not to forge union between their opposing bloodlines. This they upheld not only in the interest of balance, but as a means of keeping their powers equal.

 

In further interest of upholding a balance, they decided that they would create their heirs on their own, and would raise the new gods to act as a circle of siblings to ensure that they did not breed with each other in future. Settling atop Mount Prism—where they had made their godly home—the pair began to think and plan for the day when their heirs would walk their beautiful world.

 

The first to act was Naga, who took the softest scale from the hollow of her throat and blessed it with divine life. For three days and three nights Naga sang to the scale, willing it to take form in her image. When her song was done, Naga blessed the scale in a pool of ever-flowing sand.

As the scale grew to mimic Naga’s form, the goddess of creation lifted a handful of the sand in her palm and squeezed as hard as she could, fashioning for her child an hourglass of the purest, brightest, strongest glass. She sang too to the hourglass, blessing it with protection against all forces which might threaten it.

Once satisfied that the glass would not break, Naga filled it with still more of the ever-flowing sand and blessed it with her power. When her child’s form was complete, she placed the hourglass in its hands and sang a song of bonding; nobody but her child would be able to hold Time’s Hourglass.

 

And so was born Tiki, Voice of the Creator Gods and Keeper of Time.

 

It was she who would one day become the gods’ connection to the world once their physical bodies disintegrated—an inevitable fate when one considered how much power had gone into the creation of the earth. Every day, the universe drained more and more from its creators, but still much power remained, and it was from this power that Naga and Grima had begun to create their heirs.

 

As Tiki was the first of the new gods, she would become their leader, and the honour of guarding time had been bestowed upon her in recognition of this leadership.

 

In his heart of hearts Grima was disappointed, for he had secretly hoped to make _his_ heir the supreme leader of the younger gods. Still, swallowing his bitterness, Grima resolved not to hasten in the creation of his own child. To correct the imbalance of power that Naga’s daughter had inadvertently caused through her birth, Grima first created a gift to bestow upon his own future heir.

Taking a sheet of bark from the eldest of the trees, he fashioned it into a tome—a grimoire—from which his heir would be able to read (and in many cases, change) the destinies of every living thing that was and ever would be.

Satisfied with his work, he then removed one of the gemstones from his forehead and wrought it in the image of a young woman, imbuing her with all the powers of his keen mind. Tiki would be the Voice, but his child would be the Reason; the true driving force behind the decisions of the future godly generation. Grima, who did not sing, spoke words of power over the stone, and for many days and many nights his voice rumbled as thunder over the world below Mount Prism.

When he was finished, he named her after the first creature he had ever brought into existence, and though he knew that one day she and her godly siblings would reign over more than one domain apiece, he whispered into her ear that hers was wisdom above all others.

 

And so was born Robin, goddess of Wisdom, and Keeper of Fate.

 

To the surprise of both the creator gods, their children, both new to the world and without any other creatures to share in their divinity, became very close; closer than Grima and Naga had been and ever would be. It was as if they had been born of a true union, and neither Grima nor Naga saw fit to correct the notion in the heads of the future queens of the gods. Instead, they showed their children the ways of their new world, well pleased in the new goddesses they had brought into being, and in time Tiki and Robin came to appreciate all the creatures under their dominion.

 

For a time, Naga and Grima forgot that there were other heirs to be created—so pleased were they in their daughters that they did not see the need for anything else.

 

The first few centuries with the new goddesses passed without incident, until the time approached when Grima and Naga could no longer create mountains and rivers and forests and stars. Realizing that their powers had begun to dwindle at an alarming rate, and at the behest of their beloved heirs, Grima and Naga finally created younger gods to help in the overseeing of the world; which had started to change and evolve on its own.

 

Not to be outdone by Naga yet again, Grima brought forth a child first, pulling a fang from his mighty jaws. Atop a neighbouring mountain he worked for nearly a fortnight, summoning fire to fall from the skies so to strengthen his second child. When the last flames licked at the remnants of the fang, Grima stepped away from his creation and looked upon what he had wrought.

It was a god of muscle and sinew, a true incarnation of power, and the first of Grima’s sons. He imbued the newborn with a love for battle, but a heart steeped strongly in honour; for Grima had read the fate of the world in his daughter’s grimoire, and he had seen that there would be need for such a god. To aid his child, Grima cut a piece off of one of his divine claws, and fashioned it into an axe and a bow which would never need arrows so long as his son had strength to pull the enchanted string; two weapons of unparalleled power. These he blessed again in fire, and bestowed them upon the new god.

 

And so was born Basilio, god of War.

 

At first, Naga was furious, and Grima, unused to such open opposition from her, could not speak for fear that he would overreact. This continued for many days, until suddenly, Naga was calmed once more. Grima never did learn why. Unbeknownst to him, his daughter had shown her grimoire to Naga, and explained what the future would be without her brother Basilio to guide them, so to appease the creator from whom she had not been born.

Understanding of the need but unsettled by the directness of Grima’s creation, Naga too loosed a fang from her maw. She too took to a nearby mountaintop to shape her second child; but where Grima had called for the flames of the heavens, Naga summoned howling blizzards to her side, and in these did she baptize her second child, her first son.

From Naga’s fang was born a young god in whom she placed the spirit of adventure. Not moments after the life had been breathed into him, he was exploring his surroundings, turning to his mother every so often to inquire after every novelty. The chill of the ice taught him to be stern, and forced him to control his boundless energy, and when Naga placed her eyes on him, he glowed with the pride of the hardy and strong.

She brought him to the base of Mount Prism and bade him climb up, intent on teaching him the value of discipline. For many days and many nights the young god was absent from the halls of his family. His sisters and brother came to watch his ascent, and when he neared them, they cheered for him, and he revelled in their praise, emboldened with each kind word.

When he reached the top and was before his fellow gods, he bowed to his mother and her fellow creator and pledged his life to the earth. Naga raised him up with her arms and reminded him of the values of strength, and the need for self-control, whispering the words in his ear so as not to distract the god Basilio, whose own ideas of strength—no matter her feelings of them—would be required in the world as well.

 

And so was born Priam, god of Discipline.

 

While Grima thought long and hard on what gifts to bestow upon his third child, Naga loosed a hair from her divine head. This she fashioned into a graceful woman’s form, imbuing it with a sense of the feminine. This goddess, she decided, would be much different from the gods she and Grima had wrought; this goddess would be the foil to their war-like natures; a symbol of peace. Such a balance would be needed in the coming times; so was told in Robin’s grimoire.

The young goddess, once formed, had eyes paler than rain, and hair so pure it was the brightest, purestt shade of gold; the same colour, Naga thought, as the stars of which she was so fond. Her voice rang softly, sweetly, as lyrical as Tiki’s, but of a gentler bent, and Naga was well-pleased as she gazed upon her newest child. As a gift to the young goddess, Naga branded her forehead with Naga’s own mark, and imbued in it the quiet authority of the truly peaceful. As a second blessing, she ensured that the new goddess would be forever patient, unmoved by whatever squabbles would threaten the balance between her brothers and sisters.

 

And so was born Emmeryn, goddess of Peace.

 

Seeing the numbers now tipped once more in Naga’s favour, Grima grew apprehensive. He did not doubt that Naga’s intentions were good, but with no balance in place, no darkness to curb the unending light, he feared that the truths hidden in Robin’s grimoire would cease to be, and the world would be one of chaos.

There would always be a slight imbalance of powers, of course, as Tiki was Naga’s child and would serve as leader of the gods, but still…even Tiki lacked the advantage provided by Robin’s grimoire. This, as he knew, was important, for he had heard that his daughter had opened her book of Fates to the other creator god, and it was only by Naga’s good graces that she had been allowed to keep it with her.

To clear his mind of troubling thoughts, Grima walked alone to one of Naga’s oldest streams. Bathing himself in the pure water, the god of creation looked around him and then, on a whim, breathed life into the pool until the fine figure of a man stood before him. When the young god was able to move, Grima bathed him in the stream and taught him to take pleasure in the act.

He allowed the young god to romp about the fields, indulging in the sweet scents of the flowers, the sweeter nectars of the trees, the sweetest songs of the stars that burned the sky with their light. When they had finished, Grima took the new god with him through the twisting trails of one of Naga’s forests, and taught him to think craftily, forcing the youngling to learn for himself the value of a quick mind. As a reward for his attention, Grima gifted him with fine clothes and finer jewels.

 

And so was born Virion, god of Cunning.

 

Again displeased with the traits with which Grima had marked his second son, Naga set about creating her own, and so she pulled a stone from the bottom of the ocean and doused it in the holy flames of her breath. Naga’s power, still formidable in spite of all she had lost, formed a young god with eyes and hair as deeply blue as the ocean out of which he had been taken, but he was yet unfinished as he stood before her, silent and scared. Again Naga doused him in her holy flames, and awakened the spirit within her second son, in whom she placed values that would serve all beings well to possess.

From Naga this young god received two scales, one from her right leg and one from her left, both perfectly identical in every way, shape, and form. She told him that they resembled equal halves, and that he would be a symbol of such equity. To further mark him as hers Naga placed her brand upon his shoulder, the very same which she had placed upon Emmeryn’s forehead, and at last, the young god was complete.

 

And so was born Chrom, god of Justice; the last of Naga’s sons.

 

Something in Naga’s fellow creator twisted just a little, for Grima knew that she had seen the grimoire and had studied it as well as he had, and he believed—wrongly, perhaps—that she had done nothing to prepare for the future. All of these values, these traits which she had bestowed upon her children, they were all good, and important, and necessary, but there could be such a thing as _too much good,_ and this approached it at an almost dangerous level.

He only wanted to keep their world safe.

Its prolonged existence was all he desired.

Making one final attempt to create some semblance of balance between dark and light, Grima burrowed into the mines below Mount Prism, a place wherein lay gems of unparalleled beauty. Picking up each gemstone one by one to inspect them for flaws, Grima spent an entire month in his search.  When he was finally satisfied, Grima returned to the outside world, and took with him one perfect gemstone—a substance called _diamond_ —from the earth. At the base of Mount Prism, Grima bathed the diamond in his fire, the flames spilling forth onto the stone until it held a red gleam under the light of the stars.

When his fire would spill forth no more, Grima brought the diamond back to the mine, and laid it amongst its fellows; the next night, he returned and repeated the process. This carried on each night for a fortnight, until one morning he returned, only to find that the stone was gone. In its place stood a newborn goddess with ruby hair that shamed the red of his fire, and eyes of polished garnet that would have bewitched his very soul had he not been a god above gods.

As a gift in honour of her beauty, and a symbol of the efforts he had taken to ensure her birth, Grima carved the golden walls of the mine into bars and coins and trinkets, and bestowed them upon her, for he knew that in the future within the grimoire such things would be valued above even the gift of life itself; values which he taught to his child.

 

And so was born Anna, goddess of Desire; Grima’s second daughter and the last of his children to be brought into the world.

 

When Naga beheld the new goddess, she felt a twinge of guilt in her immortal soul, for at once she understood why Grima had acted as he had. Though she could not abide by his methods, she agreed that balance was necessary, and so she went to Grima and bent her great head in apology. Grima was confused, for while he had been upset by Naga’s deeds, he had merely sought to correct what he deemed broken; the birth of his children had never been meant as a slight against his fellow creator god, nor a conduit through which he might have yielded her guilt.

Upon hearing him bid her to raise herself with pride, Naga shed a tear, and the two were reconciled when Grima himself suggested that Naga borrow some of his might to create one final deity.

From Naga’s tear was born a tiny ball of light, and as the creator blew life into her creation it appeared to bloom into a precious bud. Days spent in labour over the flower turned into weeks, and then finally, one dewy morning, the figure of a young woman beamed brightly back at her. When Naga guided her child through the gardens that had begun to form atop Mount Prism, the young goddess stepped lightly, basking in the mild warmth of the sun. As her sweet smile graced the sparse grass and her gentle fingers lightly brushed the petals of the struggling flowers, they grew, rising out of the dirt in a way that had before seemed impossible.

In Naga’s eyes, the young goddess appeared to shine.

She shone so brightly, in fact, that Naga chose not to brand the darling child. On her own she was bright enough, and good enough, and Naga was well pleased with the result, and so instead of a brand, or a gift of any other sort, she wove a crown of flowers for the youngest goddess, and placed it gently upon her sun-spun hair. There were no other gifts necessary to give, as even Grima had to agree that Naga’s third daughter was a perfect symbol of godhood. Her smile embraced the hearts of all her brothers and sisters who had come before her, and her all-encompassing happiness warmed their immortal spirits.

 

And so was born Lissa, goddess of Hope; last of Naga’s daughters, and the last true descendent of the gods of creation to be born unto the earth.

 

 

 

Together, the nine young gods and goddesses treaded the pathways of their new home, followed closely by Grima and Naga, and the world appeared to move at an idyllic pace.

 

 

But such peace, as even the gods knew, could last only for so long, and the turn of the century heralded the exit of the creator gods from the world.

 

 

As Tiki and Robin stood at the head of the altar atop Mount Prism, Grima and Naga poured their wills into their final, shuddering breath, creating further life over which their children would soon rule; animals of more varieties than those they had previously created, and creatures of great beauty and prolonged life cast in the images of the young gods themselves, to live as servants and companions atop Mount Prism.

These new creatures responded to many names, but upon quick reflection the young gods agreed that for the sake of simplicity they would be known simply as the fey-folk, or even more simply, the fey.

Regardless of the name these new beings, beautiful and carefree, danced in celebration of their existence; and the young gods looked upon them and saw, for the first time, the beauty of other living beings. Without knowing why, Anna directed one single, simple smile at one of the fey, a rose-haired beauty, and the silken grin she received in return lit her afire in a way she somehow understood, but could not express. Not yet.

 

And so it was that the first traces of desire entered the world, and fed themselves to the unwitting gods as they sat at the feet of their creators and spoke.

 

“And shall we alone rule over these our long-lived comrades, and our friends the creatures of land, sea, and air?” asked the gods, and Grima and Naga nodded their heads.

“And shall we live forever, and care after this world for which you have given your very lives?” asked the gods, and Grima and Naga nodded their heads again.

“And shall we have no others to rule, none who are so like us in image as our brothers and sisters of the fey-folk?” asked the gods, and Grima and Naga exchanged a glance between them.

Together, they shook their weighted heads and asked for a moment alone, and their children, ever dutiful, obliged.

With the last of their strength the two gods walked down their godly mountain to be among the plants and animals they had created, basking in the beauty of their world one final time. Together, they decided that it would be a shame to leave things as they were. Grima, who had seen the future of the world to an extent not even Naga could imagine, planted seeds of all colours and shapes and sizes at the base of Mount Prism.

Naga joined him in his efforts, for his back had grown stiffer than hers, and his hands shook with the placement of every seed. She did not ask, for she did not need to. Instead, she helped him to his feet and together they blew life over the seeds.

“Why do the seeds not grow?” asked Robin of her godly father when the pair returned to the top of Mount Prism.

“These beings will be similar of form to you, and to those of the fey-folk, but they will be fragile, my child, so very fragile,” said Grima as his great eyes fluttered open and shut. “They will be _mortal_ , unlike you all, and it will be your greatest task to guide and protect them, to help them to grow. In return, they shall honour you, and you shall find that as their reverence grows, so too do the domains over which you all preside.”

The gods all nodded at his words, and so Grima passed into the void first, his energy having been spent. The gemstone above Tiki’s left ear glistened as it received the last of his power; his final connection to the world he had helped bring into being.

Naga watched as the body of her fellow creator disappeared into the ether, and then she turned her great eyes upon her children and his, and she said, “Be warned, children, for the mortals will honour you, yes, and will seek to please you, but will also cause you great distress. They will squabble over your virtues; will place orders of importance upon the qualities you embody, the many domains over which you will one day come to reign. Wars will be fought in your names, crimes committed, and you will have to rise above it all and be as true gods; fair in judgement, and only interfering when it is necessary.”

“Why create mortals at all then, Mother?”

“To teach you,” said Naga, the words dying on her breath. Then so too did Naga enter the void and become nothingness, and the remnants of her power settled upon the gemstone above Tiki’s right ear. At last, the young gods were the absolute authorities of the land, and they wondered what would change under their command.

 

The gods remained within their holdings atop Mount Prism, silence binding them tightly to each other, and then, together, they called forth the rain as the first of the seeds began to sprout. When the first mortals came into consciousness, the gods showed them the path to self-sufficiency, and then retreated once more to Mount Prism. From their home, there they would watch over the pretty, ephemeral beings.

From their home, they would be as true gods.

 

 

 

 

 

And so the days of creation had come to an end, and the world as we know it began.


	2. The Queen of the Wyverns

Walking amongst the fey felt strange now, but the queen of the wyverns appeared perfectly calm as she followed the Guardians of Mount Prism through the Garden of Elincia. Today marked the return of spring, and as was customary during this time of the year she had a duty to fulfill. Around her, the beauty of the garden had begun to bloom in earnest, and it was clear that they of the fey-folk were well-pleased with their surroundings. Chains of flowers adorned hips and heads, hung off necks, and clung to wrists; all augmenting beauty too perfect to be comforting.

“Apologies, milady,” said the first Guardian, sweeping long locks of black hair from her eyes. “Lord Virion suggested we escort you through the garden, and far be it from one so lowly as I to question a god; but I fear we have done you a disservice.”

Visions of a life no longer hers floated into her mind’s eye, and the queen of the wyverns suppressed a feral smile. She knew that no matter the beauty of nature, the figures walking through the lazy pathways would surely draw their share of attention. The fey were, after all, as lustful as the mortals living down upon the soil, an indisputable truth that she knew to be written in the invisible lines across her own skin, and the skins of both the Guardians.

 

After all, they too had once numbered the first of the fey, and they too were now ascended.

 

“Perish the thought, dear…there has been no disservice done.”

It was rare for visitors to travel through the Garden of Elincia without the company of a god or goddess, without a shield from the unfiltered desires of the fey, but that did not immediately mean trouble. That did not mean anything other than that Lord Virion had thought himself rather funny earlier this morning. The rose-haired queen paused long enough to share a smile with the fretful Guardian. There would be words with the cunning god after she had conducted her duties appropriately.

Stern words.

_Join us, o’ magnificent queen._ Heavy eyes watched her every movement. _Lose yourself in our paradise._ Sweet voices rang clear in the tranquil peace of the morning air, singing their invitations. _Come to us. Make yourself one with us. Return to the world of pleasure unending._ The fey-folk—some of whom she remembered from her days amongst their kind—made no secret of their appreciation for her beauty, singing out to her in ever-more persistent rounds, but today was a day of great importance and she could ill afford a distraction.

 When her eyes strayed towards a slim figure strewn languidly underneath a blossoming tree, the queen of the wyverns had to pause, rooted by the familiar pull at the pit of her stomach. It would be so easy, so simple to accept the invitation of the fey, to lay with those of whose ilk she had once been part, partaking only of the sun, the sweet fruits of the garden, and the sweeter pleasures of the flesh…but the queen of the wyverns only shook her head once, firmly, and moved forward, ignoring the pulse of her blood.

 

Though she wished for it at times, she was no longer one of them, and it simply would not do for one of her station to involve herself in such empty coquetries.

 

She shivered in apprehension, thinking on the disapproval of the gods should she succumb to the pull of her desires so easily. While they would not normally pay any mind to her dalliances—especially considering how new she was to her role as a proper demigoddess—the early days of spring were traditionally amongst the most important in the overseeing of the world, and for her to be remiss in her duties in favour of the baser pleasures of the flesh would be viewed as a direct offense. The queen of the wyverns shrugged back the hair that had begun to fall in her eyes and reviewed what she needed to say in her head.

_She_ would be there, most certainly, and although the report needed only to be made to Lady Tiki and Lady Robin, the other gods and goddesses would surely be present if they did not have more pressing matters in need of their attendance.

_Soft hands caressed the small of her back._

It wouldn’t do for the queen of the wyverns to embarrass herself, especially before the goddess with whom she had shared many a night of her youth.

_Teeth grazed her ear, tugging at the gemstone woven through delicate skin._

She shivered, remembrance of slow, deliberate touches suffusing her in phantom heat.

_Come to me, my darling,_ called the fey from underneath the tree, picking up on the hitch of her breath that had accompanied the memory. _Lie with me, o’ glorious queen._ When the call increased in its intensity, the queen of the wyverns shook her head clear and began to shift her posture, so as to draw as little attention as possible. She moved slowly, careful never to fall out of step with the Guardians who flanked her on either side.

Gone was the confident stride employed in the eyes of her beloved wyverns, replaced with a quieter, demurer walk. Gone too was the brazen grin which sat so comfortably on her face, replaced with a quiet half-smile; an expression meant both to deflect interest as well as to indicate a lack thereof. Her eyes, typically turned towards the sky, focused on the twisting and turning of the vines beneath her feet, following the flowing patterns as they weaved all over the pathway.

Still, the fey-folk watched her movements.

She knew that they could feel it, could hear the old songs of her spirit singing alongside theirs despite her attempts to quell her inner voice. A female whom she did not recognize approached the small party, determination written in the set of her jaw. Her eyes, a simpler, muddier green than was typical of the fey, fixed upon the queen of the wyverns; on her lithe form and her blush-coloured hair, on the striking golden-rose-orange of her eyes. A slim, dark hand moved as if to touch, but was stopped promptly.

“Halt, youngling,” said the first Guardian, the hand not wrapped about the fey’s wrist raised slowly in a gesture of peace. When she moved, all present could see the flash of light that struck the holy sword at her side, though the Guardian respected the sanctity of the Garden and left the blade untouched. The fey all tensed slightly; it was not often that one of the Guardians addressed one of them so directly. “The honoured queen has business with the gods, and you would do well to leave her to her peace.”

 

The fey nodded her head slowly and backed away, and as if by some strange magic, the Garden of Elincia was clear of all save the demigoddess and her two companions.

 

The queen of the wyverns smiled and thanked the Guardian as they continued their trek, but a flash of red in the corner of her eye stopped her. Craning her neck to look for the source of the colour, she could find nothing but foliage and the occasional deer. It remained that way until they reached the archway marking the entrance into the hall of the gods, though if she peered far enough back she could make out the figures of the fey returning to their various perches within the garden.

“By your leave, Queen of the Wyverns,” said the first Guardian as she bowed, and the queen of the wyverns smiled, nodding her head in acknowledgement.

“Thank you, Guardian Say’ri.” Turning to the second Guardian she repeated the gesture, this time saying, “And to you as well, Guardian Yen’fay.”

“The gods shall see to your departure, my lady,” said Yen’fay in his deep, even voice, and with that he and his sister Guardian walked back through the garden.

If either of them noticed the covetous glances sent their way by some of the younger fey, they did a remarkable job of hiding it. A small voice nagging at the back of her head told her that they too should have felt the pull, being ascended from the fey as she had been, but the brother and sister seemed unperturbed by the whispers—fervent and laced with raw heat—that assailed her ears even though she stood upon the godly steps.

The thought that followed was beneath her, and so she promptly cast it away before setting foot in the hall of the gods.

The transition between the palace and the gardens was smooth, almost imperceptible due to godly magic, but the queen of the wyverns cast her eyes downward all the same, watching for the moment when the ground beneath her feet shifted from grass to cool, polished marble. It was a strange quirk of hers, to be sure, and one she had never thought to indulge in when she had counted herself amongst the fey, but the way that the grass seemed to melt away fascinated her no matter how many times she had watched it happen.

 

Even now, the power of the gods left her in awe.

 

The real indication that she had left the Garden of Elincia was the feeling that surrounded her as her eyes adjusted to the bright, warm lights that seemed to suffuse the gods’ halls. The celestial palace had many a name in the realm of the mortals, but atop Mount Prism the gods referred to their home only as _home_. The fey had taken to calling the castle and its sprawling grounds “Empyreum”, but the habit had been taught out of the queen of the wyverns upon her ascension, and now it was just the celestial palace wherein lived the only beings above those of her kind in the chain of divine power.

 

The scent permeating the entirety of the celestial palace’s grounds rolled over her, releasing the stress from her body, and she knew that she was right on time; Lady Tiki and Lady Robin would be waiting for her, would have blown the sweetened winds towards her in a gesture of welcome. An image of the Spring Pavilion filled her head, and Cherche nodded slowly, though none appeared present to witness her acquiescence.

Not two steps upon the polished marble floors, she was accosted by none other than the god Virion himself, and she bowed stiffly, waiting for the touch of his hand upon her shoulder before she righted herself. “My lord.”

“Nonsense!” was the god’s reply as he swept her along the hallways beside him. “What have I said about this _my lord_ business, my dear?”

“My apologies, Lord Virion, but you are one of the nine rulers of the world and it is my duty as your vassal to address you with the respect befitting one of your station.” The queen of the wyverns shook out from under the cunning god’s finely-clothed arm, slowing her pace so that she could follow his dancing footsteps from a safer distance.

He turned back towards her, expression slightly sour though his steps, ever as light, continued to guide her towards the pavilion. “You are so stiff now, Cherche, so dry and formal…not at all the way you used to be, my dear.”

 

And Cherche, Queen of the Wyverns, could do nothing but nod her agreement.

 

“This is true, but I do not regret the changes I have undergone, my lord.”

“…I see.”

“I do not miss the world I left behind, my lord,” she said.

He nodded absently in response before his eyes lit up once more. “Oh, before my mind wanders off from me, I would like an audience with you once you have finished your business with my elder sisters. There are a few matters I would like to discuss before you depart from Mount Prism. It has been _too_ long since our last little chat.”

“My lord, I never pegged you for so sentimental a god…what would this audience entail?”

“Will you be joining me, or not?”

“If this is about _him_ , I…” her voice trailed off, and Cherche could not bring herself to complete her sentence though the meaning of her silence was clear. There were some things that she could not discuss; important issues that tied her to her old ways more than she would have liked.

The gods did not bother with her too much—though Lady Tiki and Lady Robin seemed _particularly_ fond—but as her Guardian Deity, Lord Virion was naturally the most concerned and, aside from _her_ , the most personally invested.

The god sighed, the sound much more graceful than it should have been, and no more words passed between them as they weaved in and out of the hallways. The many pavilions making up much of the celestial palace were constantly shifting places, constantly in motion. When she had been younger, when she had been one of the fey, she had heard the stories of how and why this was so.

It was said that the pavilions chased the warmth of the sun or the sweet aromas of the gardens or whatever else suited the god who sat in ascendancy during that particular moment. Though Cherche had set foot in these very walkways more often than those not descended from Grima and Naga could boast, she could not say with confidence if the Spring Pavilion—the one which most saw her presence—had ever been in the same place twice.

The queen of the wyverns and her patron god stopped before a walkway of smooth white stones. Her eyes caught sight of a waterfall pouring forth from somewhere above into a perfectly formed lake, the sun seeming to catch at every droplet of water. Flowers sprang forth from seemingly nowhere, flanking the walkway, climbing and twisting the cascades over which the glistening water flowed. Cherche released a breath she had not meant to hold. Though she had witnessed it countless times, the path to the Spring Pavilion was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

“Here we are, my dear,” said Lord Virion, straightening the ruffles of silk running along his chest. “I shall be waiting for you in the Garden of Narcian. Please have my niece come to fetch me if you decide to depart before we have spoken.”

He nodded his head to her, smiling, and Cherche squared her shoulders before stepping lightly away, accented voice trilling away at a song she could have sworn she had heard before. She shrugged the hair back from her shoulders; perhaps she would speak with him later, perhaps not.

Right now, she was needed.

Treading lightly along the pathway, the queen of the wyverns braced herself. She could make out the figures of Lady Tiki and Lady Robin lounging close to each other, and the old rumours that the fey had started amongst themselves came unbidden into her head.

Her jaw locked slightly, and she tried her best to clear her mind, looking away from the divine women before her; though the gods had never said they were clairvoyant, proof of their ability to read the minds of their visitors had become impossible to deny, and it would be wise to face them with such impure thoughts; only one of the fey would believe oneself exempt in common decency such as this, and Cherche was above her once-brethren.

Above them in all things, it seemed.

“Hello, Cherche,” whispered a voice in her ear, and Cherche felt the insides of her stomach freeze. Nobody stood at her side and yet the voice, so familiar in its playfulness, felt as if the speaker had been right at her ear. The queen of the wyverns dragged her gaze towards the waiting goddesses once more, and the owner of the voice looked back at her with smiling eyes.

 

Lady Anna now sat along the back of the chaise upon which lounged Lady Robin and Lady Tiki, one hand running through the Keeper of Fate’s pure white hair while the other rested upon the Keeper of Time’s shoulder. Lady Lissa danced about the pavilion, hand outstretched in chase of a bright blue butterfly, though she paused long enough to offer Cherche a bright smile before turning her attention to her quarry once again.

“Apologies for my tardiness,” said Cherche, unsure of how to address so many goddesses at once. This had not been a problem when she had counted herself among the fey.

When she had been one of the lesser immortal creatures, she had been free. The gods had loved her well, and Cherche had been a constant addition to the beauty of the halls and gardens and pavilions of the celestial palace. She had been carefree, unafraid to make a misstep because nothing would have counted as such a thing.

For her, and those of her brothers and sisters with whom she had shared such favoured status, the gods had decorated their grand hall in stars of all colours, had summoned their finest musicians—others of her kind who lived permanently within the palace—and asked for them to play. Bidding Cherche to sing her songs for them, the gods and goddesses had oft smiled at her, had danced with her, had drank in the sweet softness of her eyes, of her voice.

Had one of them so desired it—as was often the case—the day’s festivities would end with Cherche tangled between godly limbs and sheets of which softness could be found only in a divine bed.

Lord Virion, for all his wiles and praises of her charms, had never once touched her so, but there had been others— _silvery locks, deep blue hair, sun-spun strands of gold_ —with whom she had shared the enchantments of her birthright as a fey. Those nights had been burned into the spirit of her flesh and at times, when she closed her eyes, she could still recall some of those fine details, those divine conquests; could still feel herself brimming over with inborn lust; could still remember how she would unravel in the arms of a god or goddess before waking the next morn to repeat the cycle once more.

Things had changed slowly, until it was not hair of white or blue or gold which mingled with her own, but locks as deeply red as blood. A goddess had claimed Cherche in a way that the then-fey had not thought possible, and for a time, Cherche had been happy to remain as she was. She had wanted for nothing as a fey, but as the lover to one of the great deities she had been given _everything_. She had been the jewel at the centre of one of the divine crowns; the fey who had been alluring enough to catch at the heart of a goddess.

And then, for some reason, she had left it all behind, and had become, in some way, an ascended member of the hierarchy of Mount Prism. Cherche did not remember how it had come to pass, but in some way, for some reason, she had become a demigod, and had taken on the lifestyle and the responsibilities of one, in addition to the fusion of the divine with her already immortal blood.

 

She did not regret her ascension, but the life of the fey-folk had been so much simpler, so much more charmed.

“Cherche, my dearest, you seem troubled. Is anything the matter?” Lady Tiki moved to stand, but Cherche shook her head, feeling the curtain of her hair fall about her body in its usual playful way. Some charms had not left her in spite of the dangers presented by her new role.

“Peace, my lady, I am…well,” she said.

Squaring her shoulders, the queen of the wyverns prepared to give her report. It was standard for the springtime: little more than a conclusive list on the numbers of the wyverns in her care; the precise sizes and make-ups of every single rage of wyverns living not only in the valley Cherche now called home, but across the entire world; areas of concern with regards to wyvern-hunting, and so on. Purely business, purely information meant to assist the gods in their endeavours to uphold the balance of the world. Nothing personal, nothing difficult, and nothing that Cherche did not know.

When Lady Robin’s hand—marked with the brand of her godly father—bade Cherche speak, she did, the words rolling off  her tongue quickly, but carefully. Nothing, not even the sight of Lady Anna`s familiar grin, could ruin her focus.

That was, nothing could ruin her focus enough to make her falter.

As she spoke, she noted the addition of a body within the holy pavilion. A small, girlish figure appeared at Lady Tiki’s side, garbed in the red-and-white hooded robes of one of Lady Tiki’s most devout followers, and when the youngling’s hand moved to remove the hood from over pointed ears Cherche knew that this was Nowi; the only child of the queen of the gods. She could not help but watch as the young demigod smiled in pleasure at Lady Tiki’s hand upon her cheek.

 

The gesture of filial affection struck a chord within Cherche’s heart.

 

Anna’s eyes—polished garnet set against porcelain skin—never once left her face, and the queen of the wyverns tried her utmost not to stare into the gaze of the Goddess of Desire, not knowing what it was that could be wanted of her now, now that she had risen above the rest of her base-driven kind.

 

Or perhaps, she thought to herself as her words continued to flow, it was more that now she merely _chose_ not to know.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Lord Virion was waiting for her in the Garden of Narcian, as he had said he would be, and as Cherche moved to stand at his elbow a young fey took her gently by the hand, guiding her to a gilded chair. “Please, sit,” Lord Virion said to before nodding in thanks to the already-retreating fey. “How went your report, my dear?” She cast her eyes about her for a moment, to make it seem as if she were thinking on her response. The Garden of Narcian, while not as sprawling as the Garden of Elincia, was just as magnificent, but as with the other gardens—as with all gardens atop Mount Prism—it felt almost too perfect to be natural.

Of course, having lived within the domain of the gods before, Cherche could confidently say that almost nothing was natural here; the powers of the divine had seeped into the very soul of the mountain, colouring all growth with unnatural beauty and life.

“As well as usual, Lord Virion,” she said once she had finished her perusal of their surroundings, sitting stiffly with her back pressed hard into the chair. “What was it you wished to speak with me about?”

He clicked his tongue, indicating his displeasure at her brusqueness. “Now, now, Cherche. My siblings and I oft find we miss your company; some of them perhaps more than myself,” the tone in his voice suggested that she knew _which_ siblings he meant, and why, but she did her best to pay his antics little mind. Her stomach twisted in familiar knots, still, but the fey loitering nearby did nothing more than flick curious eyes in her direction. Lord Virion’s presence was a strong deterrent from the sort of overtures Cherche had received during her walk through the Garden of Elincia.

Any god or goddess’s presence, save for Lady Anna’s, would be.

“And so?”

“You have been ascended for how long now, Cherche?”

“This summer will be my fortieth as queen of the wyverns.”

“So, it has been _fifty_ years since that time…Are you not curious?”

The queen of the wyverns froze. She should have known that Lord Virion would want to speak on the one subject she so vehemently avoided while atop Mount Prism, or anywhere else that was not her peaceful valley. In truth, she avoided it even there. “I should be taking my leave, my lord.” She rose.

“Cherche,” said a voice that did not belong to the well-dressed god before her. “Wait. You cannot avoid him forever. You cannot avoid _me_ forever.”

“And I can assure you that I never meant to do either, milady,” said Cherche as she turned, body twisting into a bow at Anna’s—Lady Anna’s—approach. “But I do have duties to attend to, and must not tarry here for longer than is necessary. The gods have blessed me, and I must do my best to honour such gifts.”

The Goddess of Desire—though of course she represented more than just that now, in this complex new age—tilted her head away from the queen of the wyverns. “And yet you neglect the gift you have given unto the world of your own body. Just as you have for the last half-century.”

Cherche’s very spirit rankled against that. _How dare she! Not even a goddess…_ but Lady Anna was right. She had been neglectful, had not visited Mount Prism as dutifully as she once promised she would; as she had never so much as attempted to do. “How…how does he fare?”

“His growths are much the same as those of the fey, and although he is approaching his fiftieth year he has yet to leave from my pavilion save for short excursions amongst them—

“And slightly longer excursions with my own beloved son,” Lord Virion added, and Cherche noted the way that Lady Anna nodded amusedly at her brother’s words, perhaps even fondly. The only son of the God of Cunning was a strange child, though she was not sure if that was due to the eccentricities of his father or the strictness of his mother. Whatever it was, he was as comfortable atop Mount Prism as Lady Tiki’s own daughter, which surely comforted Lord Virion. After all, the haughty god’s domains also included the realms of extravagance and pleasure, and where better to experience either than here?

If such a place existed, not even Cherche, who had rounded the world on the back of a black-winged wyvern, knew of its whereabouts.

“Yes, he does spend much of his time with his cousin,” Anna conceded, and the smile on her face was now completely fond, without a trace of mocking. Completely unlike the coy grin that marked most of the statues erected in her temples.

“That is…good,” Cherche said. “The, er, the griffon… Does he get along well with the griffon?” Of all the gifts she had sent throughout the years, that was perhaps her most inspired, and most questionable choice.

Lady Anna turned and stared, observing the queen of the wyverns with a curious expression. Had it been anybody else, Cherche would have thought that some hurt lingered in the eyes of the goddess, but it could not have been possible. Surely there had been others—many others—since that time all those years ago. No, this was Lady Anna trying to draw something out of her; some sort of response that she had yet to give.

“You mean Michalis? They are the very best of companions. The boy does not venture anywhere without Michalis.”

“That…that is good then,” offered Cherche as she backed away.

“Is that all you have to say?”

Cherche did not miss the way that Lord Virion began to retreat slowly, and she realized in that moment that she had been had. Gritting her teeth to keep from insulting a god, she shook her head, directing her gaze at Lady Anna. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to come with me, now.”

“Why?”

“It is time you met your son.”

 


	3. The Goddess' Son

The walk towards Anna’s personal domain was filled with the red-haired goddess’ chatter, and Cherche did her best to listen even though every word hurt her more than it rightly should have. Every scrap of praise sung in the child’s favour did little to endear it to the queen of the wyverns. Cherche did not know why that could be. While it was true that she had, in essence, abandoned the child to its—his—godly mother, she had never once wished it _ill._ To hear of its successes, its small triumphs, should it not have proven a point of pride for her as well, as such things were to all parents of children?

 

She shook her head clear of the thought; the child was barely hers—she had had so little to do with it since bringing it into the world.

 

As if sensing what had caused Cherche’s disquietude, Lady Anna’s discourse changed direction. Instead of focusing solely on the child—their _son,_ as the goddess so emphatically put it—much ado was made about the way that the boy had been raised, much emphasis placed on what had been done with him following Cherche’s departure from the realm of the gods. In accordance with Cherche’s wishes—none of which she could say with confidence that she remembered—Lady Anna had named their son Gerome, she said, and he had been—and was still being—raised as a true child of the gods. The thought struck Cherche as almost unthinkable, for Gerome had not been the first to be born of a god and a fey, and he was, at most, but a demigod…a demigod with no need to prove his worth in exchange for his immortality.

That was the strange situation in which the child—the boy, her son, _Gerome_ —found himself.

Not that he would have had to do such a thing even had he gone to the fey for nurturing, of course, but from the way that the goddess spoke, the boy was a god in all but name. It was a puzzling thing, this business of gods and demigods, and the queen of the wyverns was unsure as to how her son had been affected. Cherche herself had been immortal before her ascension, a result of being born of the fey. Though she had not been elevated to her place as a demigoddess until the boy’s tenth year, Cherche’s ascension had indeed affected the boy’s—Gerome’s—standing, if Lady Anna’s words were anything to go by.

None of this should have mattered to her, of course, but Cherche felt as if it did—a feeling which held her steady even as the goddess’ steps slowed and they came to rest at the entrance of a grand orchard. She cast her eyes about it, unable to discern what fruits the trees held. It did not matter, of course, but her curiosity had taken control of her—perhaps as a way of redirecting her focus on to something other than the impending meeting with her son—and though she needed to squint to do so, Cherche could make out the curves of red orbs; apples, perhaps. This place, this was not more than an apple orchard, or, as Cherche recalled, a hallmark from Anna’s first forays into the world of trade that had only just begun to truly emerge on the surface world.

 The queen of the wyverns shifted on her feet, nervous suddenly at the prospect of meeting a child she had not seen since he was but a babe in swaddling clothes. She had left for the valley almost immediately following his birth, unable to stay by his side as his wails echoed throughout the marble halls. To this day she did not know what had compelled her to leave her newborn babe amongst the fey; what had compelled her to leave Mount Prism completely. The ten years between Gerome’s birth and her ascension to Queen of the Wyverns remained a blurred span of time with unclear causation, but whatever had happened, her actions remained unforgivable.

 

She had been remiss in her duties as his mother, and not even the gifts she had sent her boy every year since his birth could atone for that.

 

“Gerome,” called Lady Anna, and her voice had a strange touch of warmth to it that Cherche had never heard before. Curious, she watched the space in between the trees, where a figure had begun to emerge. The shock of red hair caught her eye first; the finely-combed strands made a perfect match for Lady Anna’s ruby-red locks. Lovely hair, really; the most beautiful shade of red to be found in the world. His eyes, she noted, were the colour of griffon feathers, a warm brown that evoked hints of her own rose-orange ones and contrasted beautifully with his fair skin and that striking hair.

 

Though she did not know him in the way that a mother should have known her child, Cherche felt a stirring in her chest—this boy, this beautiful young demigod, had eyes reminiscent of her own.

 

Gerome was certainly a fine-looking boy, by any stretch of the imagination. His features sat in perfect alignment, eerily symmetrical in a way that indicated his godly parentage and fey blood all in one face. Her heart swelled at that too, just a little. Her son—she felt another stab at her chest when she claimed him—was too perfect to be true, and yet…there he was. The pride in her chest only grew as she watched his approach; he was seated atop a lovely young griffon, and he held his regal bearing even as he noticed her and Lady Anna standing at the archway leading out to Lady Anna’s garden.

“Gerome,” began Lady Anna again, “Please, do show me the wellness of your manners and greet our guest.”

 “Yes, mother,” replied the boy. Dismounting from the griffon, he took but a moment to steady himself upon the ground before he bowed before Cherche, catching her eyes in his own before greeting her. “Greetings, o’ Queen of the Wyverns, and welcome to my mother’s garden.” His voice was devoid of the childish, teasing lilt to be found in that of a fey-child—a lilt she had, for the last forty years, forced herself to mold into one more befitting of a demigod. Gerome, when he spoke, spoke with the fluidity of language found only in a child of the gods.

“Thank you, young one,” she replied, careful to keep her tone light and free of any sort of inflection. “I am humbled and honoured.”

“My son, surely you know the true identity of the woman to whom you speak?” The smile that Lady Anna sent her son was one that Cherche had never known to be in the goddess’ arsenal. It was entirely too warm to be faked, too genuine to be the product of centuries of experience in the arts of seduction and persuasion. In it, Cherche recognized the familiar glimmer of what the mortals, the _humans_ called “a mother’s love”, and she was surprised beyond reason.

Lady Anna loved her—their—son, wholly and completely.

The boy’s eyes, heavy-lidded like Lady Anna’s, swept over her, and for a moment Cherche was afraid. Her son, as it appeared, had thus far turned out to be more god than fey, and she was strangely comforted by the thought, if a little frightened at what they might mean for him should the wills of the Creators choose to see him involved in the troubles of the world below Mount Prism.

Looking over her boy again, Cherche realized that she was being, perhaps, rather ridiculous. He would, if he continued growing at this rate, be broad of shoulder and strong of limb, not lithe and sleek and small like so many of the males with whom she had shared her childhood. The blood of the fey, while enduring, was weak in comparison to the blood of the gods—as weak as the blood of mortals, in some respects. Yes, there was very little of the fey in her boy aside from his unnatural beauty, and even that could be attributed to his godly blood.

Gerome would grow to be _powerful_. Immortal. In control of himself and the world around him.

A god.

Or at least, more a god than not, with the effects of his fey blood only serving to bolster his godly attributes. Demigod though her son might be, he had been born into the position, unlike his demigoddess mother; it was something he had never had to, and would never have to, defend. For some reason, the thought struck Cherche as…almost sad. She did not know what it was about the implications of her son’s blood that had her feeling so low.

In the end, she decided that it would be best not to pursue that train of thought any further.

“Gerome?” Lady Anna asked, and it was only until Cherche looked away from the boy that she realized that they had been allowing her a moment just to take him in. She appreciated the thoughtfulness, surprised that it should come from the Goddess of Desire herself. The goddess was thoughtful in many ways, something that she had proven to Cherche even in the centuries before the latter’s ascendancy, but Cherche had never thought that Lady Anna would be so kind as to respect such sentimentalities.

“Of course…,” the boy bowed again, this time in the way one would for an honoured parent, and Cherche’s heart leapt into her throat and waited there. Waited for words she had no right to hear. “Welcome home, _Mother_.” When the boy straightened, he was smiling at her, and Cherche felt her chest constrict. She had never dreamed that the child she had abandoned would deign to call her by that title. She had never thought it possible that she would be so easily accepted—so easily _forgiven._

 

 

Cherche wondered at what goodness resided in her son’s heart that he should call her mother so easily after the decades she had missed.

 

 

“May I…call you my son, Gerome?” She did not know if she could bear a rejection. Her time amongst the wyverns had changed her, yes, had allowed her to tap into a side of herself that revelled in the simplicities of pleasure, of life, in a way different from the ways of the fey, but there had always been something nagging at the back of her mind. Something which had always served to remind her that she could not lose herself completely to her beastly instincts; she could not truly live as did the wyverns under her care. Something pulled her to Mount Prism time and again, something more than duty—such was a fact that she could not deny. It would appear that the queen of the wyverns had never quite been able to leave behind the boy she had left behind.

She held her arms out to her son and waited, praying to the gods even though she knew that no thoughts could remain secret here, atop Mount Prism.

Gerome nodded after a quick glance at Lady Anna, and walked into Cherche’s waiting arms. It was strange to think that a being of nearly fifty years of life should be considered a child and appear to all who viewed him as one, but such was the way of Mount Prism, and the queen of the wyverns did not question it. She much preferred this to the way that the mortals down below appeared to others after only a half-century of survival—if they even survived to reach that pitiable age.

She released the boy from her grip, though her hands found their way to his shoulders, still slight and soft and _so young_. “There are so many things that I wish I could say to you, Gerome. So many things for which I must apologize, but I…”

The boy shook his head, and it was in his eyes, bronzed in the light, that she saw the wisdom of the gods in its purest form. “You, my mother, need not apologize to me, for my life has been blessed by the love of so many; and I am happy here. Knowing that you feel so strongly for me…means much.”

Cherche did not fail to notice the proud smile that Lady Anna gave their son, and she could not help but mimic the expression. She turned to the goddess and bowed. “You have raised him well, my lady.”

Lady Anna’s smile quieted, becoming a dull echo of what it had been only seconds before. “Cherche, if I may have a word with you a moment?” She turned to Gerome. “My son, see to your mount. I am sure Michalis would much appreciate your care.”

Gerome bowed stiffly, a very correct bow for so young a demigod, and Cherche felt the pride begin to stir within her again. Though she had no right at all to claim anything about the boy as a result of her own actions, she could not help it. Even the way that the boy walked, leading his griffon with a gentle hand…was perfect.

Lady Anna had truly done a splendid job with him, and for some reason Cherche suspected that she had been far more involved in Gerome’s upbringing than Virion had been with his own son.

That of course, made her question why it was that the goddess had sent the boy away in so obvious a dismissal. Had she spoken out of turn? Had she assumed incorrectly? “Cherche,” Lady Anna said as soon as the boy was out of earshot. “I understand that you may hold some grievances against yourself which you might wish to confess to the boy, but I implore you to stay your tongue. You need not make mention of your guilt to Gerome.”

“Lady Anna?

“Please, surely you can see it as acceptable to refer to me by my name alone. At least when there is the possibility that our son might hear you…”

Cherche did not know what game it was that the goddess had decided to play, but she was no longer simply a woman of the fey. Now, she was a demigoddess, and though the goddess before her far outranked her, she had the right to ask questions should she feel it necessary. “Is there a reason for this, La-Anna?”

The goddess turned her eyes downward in a motion too slow to be anything other than deliberate, until all that Cherche could make out were the deep red lashes that curled in Anna’s familiar, _just so_ _inviting_ manner. Something in her blood, some remnant of her fey origins, felt a pull as Anna turned her eyes up once more to meet Cherche`s gaze, but the Queen of the Wyverns stood firm against the goddess` thrall. She was no longer a fey, she reminded herself; the impulses of the body could be controlled, and she had learned how to do just that.

Through the long, lonely decades, she had learned.

 Anna heaved a sigh; heavy, dramatic, and entirely similar to the one she had often used to call Cherche to her side on difficult nights. “I understand why you would feel wary in my presence, Cherche, but there are things you must know, and now, before Gerome returns.” Anna’s jaw squared in the way it usually did when she would not be moved on an issue.

“And what manner of things might these be, La-Anna?” Cherche resisted the urge to heave a sigh of her own.

“As far as our son is concerned, you have not visited him because you have not been able; your duties have commanded every speck of your attention for the last forty years, but you have never once wished for him to feel as if you did not think of him every single day of your life.”

“You have lied to the boy, then?”Cherche could not help but feel badly; Anna would not have had to lie to their son if she had stayed behind to raise him. If she had not insisted, for reasons yet unclear to her, on setting foot on the path leading down and away from Mount Prism.

Anna’s eyes, cherry-dark in the shade, held Cherche’s gaze until the latter felt as if she could no longer look away. “I have done what I believed would be in the best interests of my child.” The edge in her voice was hard, harder than Cherche had thought possible coming from Anna. When the goddess spoke next, however, that edge seemed to have softened. “It did not make sense to me to slander your name to him…and my sisters directed me to be careful, as the time would come that you were here atop Mount Prism once more, ready to meet your son.”

Cherche did not need to ask to know to which sisters the goddess before her referred. Of all the gods, only Robin and Tiki had the authority to issue directives to their brothers and sisters. Their involvement in all of this raised a few questions in the demigoddess’ mind.

Between the Keeper of Time and the Keeper of Fate, few things remained unknown, and yet they were notorious for keeping knowledge from even their own godly siblings. For them to have intervened—and on the behalf of an ascended fey, not even a demigod borne of their blood—meant something, something _important_ , but Cherche could not determine what that might have been.

“Cherche?”

“My apologies, Anna,” she said, bowing her head quickly. The goddess’ hand on her arm jolted her upright.

The redheaded goddess shook her head, tilting her chin towards the approaching figure of her son—Cherche’s son too, Cherche had to remind herself—“Please. Gerome does not know of our…relationship…prior to his birth. I have not had the heart to tell him yet.”

“I cannot—

“I am not asking that you lie to him forever…but for now, please, only follow my lead and do not make it obvious to our son that you and I were never in love.”

Cherche bit her tongue and nodded before looking away. “Very well.” Surely a godly son would not need such reassurance? Surely… “Does the boy think that we…are bonded?”

“Cherche, please…that _boy_ is our son, and he has been named.” Anna looked as if she were about to say more, but seemed to decide against it, instead turning to her son with a beaming smile on her face. Cherche watched the boy fall into his mother’s arms, the top of his head barely touching Anna’s chest. He was so beautiful. So perfect. And Anna, for all that her first calling had been as the Goddess of Desire, Commerce, and Persistence, was the picture of maternity with her son in her arms.

For some reason, it left Cherche feeling cold inside.

She was proud of the boy in Anna’s arms, curious to see how he would grow, and perhaps, somehow, somewhere within her, she loved him. Loved him properly, the way a mother should, and not just in the prideful way that she felt for him now, as she watched him nestle into his mother’s warmth. Cherche wanted to love her boy, she did…but she did not know him.

 

And she did not know if she wished to.

 

“Mother?” asked the boy, and Cherche fought to put a smile on her lips. Gerome did not know of any other life than this—did not know of struggle or pain or war or death. All that he knew was that he was the son of a goddess and a demigod, and that he was loved and would never want for anything. All that he knew was that he had a mother who loved him enough to put aside her duties to the mortal realm whenever he had need of her, and a second mother—the one who had birthed him—who could see him only rarely because of her duties being too numerous to avoid.

He did not know how people lied—how even the _gods_ could take the truth and hide it away until it was as if such a thing had never existed.

“Mother?”

“Pardon?” She looked into his eyes, surprised to find a shade of expectancy darkening the vibrant brown irises.

“I…understand that your duties require your complete attention, but perhaps…for tonight…would you stay here? With me?”

Decades of life amongst the wyverns had hardened her to surprises, had honed Cherche’s instincts into something that could be controlled if the situation demanded it, but in this instant she found herself unable to hide the quick release of air that escaped past her lips. Anna’s gaze, panic-stricken, pleaded with her to accept, but the part of Cherche that had taken decades to attune itself to the wyverns—her new family, in all truth—wanted so strongly to resist. She wanted to be free from Mount Prism, and even spending one more night amongst the glorious remains of her past life would be—

“Cherche,” said Anna, and it was only with great reluctance that the queen of the wyverns turned to the goddess. “For a single night, allow yourself to worry not for the wyverns.” The goddess tilted her chin upwards toward Cherche’s ear, and, unknowing as to why, Cherche leaned down to accommodate her. “For a single night, allow yourself to spend time with the child you birthed.”

Cherche could not say if the goddess’ words had their intended effect, but she stepped away from Anna and tuned to the son they shared, and with a nod of her head she agreed to spend the night atop Mount Prism.

 

 

 

What she could not have known at the time, and what she would not realize until much later, was that one night would become seven, which would in turn become one month, which would, by her son’s request, become three; and those three months would become fixed in the eyes of all within the gods’ halls as the months during which the goddess Anna and her partner, Cherche, Queen of the Wyverns—though no such relationship between them existed—spent time almost exclusively with the son they had borne of their union.

What she could not have known—what none of them could have known—was that these three months would come to be known as the culling season for the wyvern herds on the surface. Without their queen present to force the beasts into cooperation, the stronger wyverns—led by the queen’s own favourite, Minerva—banded against the weak, those deemed unfit to continue the herd’s proud traditions. While at first the discovery of several of her charges deaths had proven upsetting, the queen of the wyverns soon found the culling season a necessary time, and so resigned herself to that month of the year when she would be amongst the beings of Mount Prism.

 

 

 

 

 

And so it would have remained had not the tensions between the queen of the wyverns and the Goddess of Desire run so high that the peace, once so sweet, fell apart at their hands. Their harsh, ugly words rebounded across the plentiful lands of the gods’ domain, signalling an end to an arrangement that had, at this point, lasted for well on two centuries. What one desired, the other did not, and what one wished, the other would not give.

The result was a dissolvement of the entire arrangement, and a request made by the queen of the wyverns that her visits to Mount Prism—once quarterly, before the introduction of her son—now be made necessary on but two days of the entire year. The Keeper of Time and the Keeper of Fate answered the request with their favour, and so it was that the queen of the wyverns was given leave to return to the valley she felt she had left untended for three months of each of the last two hundred years.

 

 

 

As Cherche, descended the first step leading towards the base of Mount Prism, she was called, once more to her son, Gerome. The boy, who by now had begun to take on the appearance of a young man, held tightly to his mother’s arm and begged her not to go. In turn she smoothed the feather-fair locks of his hair, and bade him not to shed a tear for her departure.

“I shall see you every spring, my son, and every winter.”

“I will wait every day for you, Mother.”

And with a final kiss placed upon her child’s brow, the queen of the wyverns, who had learned to love the child borne of her own flesh despite her fears that she would never be able to, descended to the surface world, not to return to the gods’ mountain unless duty called her there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it has been a _while_ since my last post...  
>  Better get to fixing that, I think, so here's to hoping that the one hour of mandatory writing I'm implementing actually bears fruit.
> 
> Catch me [on Tumblr](http://www.lazywritergirl.tumblr.com) to kick my butt into gear, or just chat or whatever. See ya!

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be scattered, as this work is not my main focus at this time. The more you ask for it, though, the more likely I'll be to work on it (wink)! 
> 
> When I'm not writing, you can catch me [ on Tumblr ](http://lazywritergirl.tumblr.com). Or play games with me, LWG Kay, on Steam...I mean, in all likelihood I'll actually be sleeping buuuut drop me a line if you feel so inclined!


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